


love in the nick of time

by jynersq



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:58:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynersq/pseuds/jynersq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On his eighteenth birthday, Leo Fitz learns to time-travel, and it takes him exactly six days, twelve hours, and twenty minutes to tell Jemma Simmons.</p><p><em>About Time</em> AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love in the nick of time

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Laura (anneweaver) for beta-ing, and for being my _About Time_ buddy!
> 
> Inspired by the movie _About Time_. It's not necessary to have seen the film before reading, but that may be helpful!

On his eighteenth birthday, Leo Fitz learns to time-travel.

More specifically, he stumbles into it headfirst, bumbles around quite a bit, and manages to hit his head more than an acceptable number of times on the inside of closets and other small, dark spaces. Learns for the first time what it means to curl his fingers into fists and close his eyes, to pick out the moments he wants to reach and find himself there.

His birthday goes like this:

In the same manner as almost all of his previous birthdays, his lovely, well-intentioned mother makes a fuss, and he spends most of the day attempting to avoid said fuss. Though he is not well-acquainted with too many people in his town or even the Academy, the house somehow manages to be boisterous with noise and laughter.

They end up, himself and Simmons, as they often do, up in his room, stretched lazily across his bed with their half-eaten cake slices on paper plates between them. He fools aimlessly with a spare Rubik’s Cube while she pages through the latest issue of _National Geographic,_ securing her jaunty party hat with one hand every few minutes.

“Do you feel different?” she asks, looking up from her page with a smile and breaking the silence. Because she asks him every year, and, as long as she’s known him, he's always answered the same way.

“Oh, of course,” he says, sitting up. “I almost can’t remember what it’s like, being seventeen.” He rests his chin on his open hand, contemplative. “So young and impressionable… I don’t know how you do it.”

 She snorts. He grins at her.

“Well, no need to be cheeky,” she says, knocking him softly with an elbow. “I was just asking.” 

“On the contrary, Simmons,” he says, and flops back onto the bed. “There’s always a need to be cheeky.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but is cut off by three quick knocks on the hardwood door. His mum, he thinks, no doubt, with a creeping feeling of guilt for pretty much abandoning the party altogether.

“It’s unlocked,” they call out.

A faint rustling, as she tries the handle. 

“No, it’s not,” she says, through the door, and knocks once more for good measure. “What are you two up to in there?” Almost as an afterthought, “It better not be another experiment, Fitz — I’ve _told_ you, not in the house!”

“No, no,” he sighs, getting up. “Sorry, Mum,” he says, sheepishly, as he opens the door and comes face-to-face. “Wasn’t on purpose.” 

His mother stands there, managing a cross between affection and indignance, her soft greying hair piled into a high bun. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks over his shoulder to Simmons.

“I hope you’re keeping him in line,” she says, but there a shining in her eyes that belies all sternness. “He’s prone to accidents, you know,” she says, lowering her voice in confidentiality. “Always building robots in the basement and then using them to knock things over. Broke one of my vases during a house party, a few weeks ago. He ran right into me as I was bringing it down the stairs!”

Simmons laughs brightly, leaning back on her arms on the bed.

"I'm right here!” Fitz protests.

His mother puts up a hand. 

“As enjoyable as this is, and as many embarrassing stories I could produce, I came up here for a reason." She looks to Simmons. "Would it be possible for me to borrow my son a moment?” 

"By all means." She nods, generously.

His mother turns to go, and Fitz turns back to her, catching her eye. She raises an eyebrow, inclines her head forward.

“Well, go on,” she says, smiling, making shooing motions with her hands. “I’ll wait for you.”

He crosses the hall, following his mother, and shuts the study door behind them.

— 

Fitz can read the hesitance on her face as she turns to face him, brow suddenly drawn in contemplation. Chin resting lightly on her hand.

“Well, here we are,” she says, haltingly, as though she has something to say but doesn’t know quite where to start. “First off, you might want to sit down.”

He raises his brows, smiling a little in bewilderment. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen his mother hesitant. Loud? Yes. Intrusive? Lovingly so. But unsure? It leaves an odd fluttering nervousness in his chest.

“Well, that’s very formal,” he says, but does so anyway, leaning against the arm of the couch. She continues to stand.

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I don’t quite know what to do with this. This is a bit of an odd moment for me. I had the same conversation with my mother when I turned eighteen, and, well. It was quite a dramatic turning point in my life—”

“Mum,” he says, cautiously, cutting her off. “Is something wrong? Are you sick?”

“No, no, I’m sorry,” she says, again, waving her hands before her. “Just nervous, that’s all.”

“Okay,” he says, relieved, though very much confused. “When you’re ready, I’m very intrigued.” He folds his hands on his lap, sits back, patiently.

“Leopold. My dear son,” she begins, awkwardly, and then stops, casting about for the right words. “There’s this family secret,” she continues, winding a hand nervously into the back of her hair. “And the secret is, that those in our family, my side of the family, can…”

He shakes his head, smiling in bewildered encouragement.

“The simple fact is. Those in our family have always had the ability to— Oh.” She worries her hands together. “This is going to sound strange—” She screws up her face, thinking of just the right way to deliver it. Rocks back a little on her heels.

He raises his brows — curiosity getting the better of him. “They can _what_?”

She lets out a slow breath. _“Travel in time.”_

He stares.

“Well,” she amends, “Travel back in time. Can’t go to places you haven’t been.”

He realizes that his mouth has dropped open, and quickly closes it.

“This is a very _weird_ prank," is all he says. Then, "Did Simmons put you up to this? Is this because I—" 

“It’s not a prank,” she says.

He’s starting to wonder if maybe, sometime very soon, he should call the police. Or 911. Or go get Simmons. Or something.

“So, you’re saying,” he clarifies, eyebrows nearly clearing his hairline, “you’re saying that you, and Granddad—”

“Gram. It’s her side." 

“You, and Gram, and others. Could all travel _back in time.”_

“Precisely."

“And you still do?” he asks, humoring her, waiting for Simmons to jump out from behind one of the curtains.

“All the time,” she says, looking a bit relieved. “Went back this morning, as a matter of fact. Cut my finger rather badly on a paring knife.” She pauses, thinking. “Oh! But only to places in my own life. I can’t go back somewhere I haven’t been, that’s not how it works. Only to places within my own lifetime. Yours, for you.”

“Okay, stop.” He puts a hand out in front of him, feeling as though his mind is teetering on the very edge of sanity. Or, at least, his patience. “If this is true, which it isn’t—”

“It _is_ —” 

“It _isn’t,_ obviously, but if it were — which it’s really, really not — How would I even actually, you know—?”

Her eyes light up. “The _how_ of it is easy. You go into a dark place — a big cupboard, a closet — and you close your eyes, and clench your fists, like this.” She shows him. “Close your eyes,” she continues, “and picture where you want to be. You’ll find yourself there. Easy as pie."

“Wow,” he says, starting to rise. “Okay. This very obviously a joke that Simmons has gotten you tangled up in, on my birthday, no less— so, when I get back after standing in a cupboard with my fists clenched, you two are going to be in so much trouble."

She smiles at him, knowingly. "Humor me," she says.

He heads for the door, shaking his head.

"So much trouble," he mutters.

—

Objectively, it's not a terrible prank, he thinks, standing in the dim cupboard with loose hands, feeling entirely absurd. He doesn't doubt that his best friend is somehow involved — manipulating his excitement over the potential physics of time-travel, and all that. Only she could’ve managed to convince his no-nonsense mum to participate in such a scheme. They've done birthday pranks, before, but he's almost impressed. This one really, well, takes the cake.

He stares out along the thin strip of light from the crack between the doors, and thinks, _What the hell._

He closes his eyes. Slowly, with the something inexplicably close to nervous anticipation tickling his stomach, he curls his fingers into fists.

With a little shake of his head, he picks over a few recent memories, his mind landing on a particularly vivid house party his mother had thrown maybe a month before. He screws up his eyes even tighter, focusing all his energy on this one singular point. Why not be able to say he gave it his all, right?

The half-second that follows is a blur of sights and sounds, ripped past his eyes like a film reel sped too fast, indistinguishable figures and colors just out of reach.

His eyes fly open. Immediately, it’s obvious something’s up. Even from inside the cupboard, he can see that the light’s changed, gone from soft mid-afternoon to early-morning brightness. His clothes feel itchy against him, like they don’t fit him quite right, or he’s remembering the sensation of having them there.

He looks down, and stifles a gasp, flying back into the depths of the cupboard, whacking his head on the low ceiling. He’s changed clothes.

“Shit,” he whispers, rubbing at the back of his head. _“Fuck.”_

Wide-eyed and stumbling, he exits the cupboard. There’s faint music coming in from the hall, and he makes his way toward it, half-dazed and hardly daring to believe.

He steps cautiously at first, as though everything around him is only carefully-painted illusion. He’s half-planning to duck into the kitchen to reaffirm the date  — Saturday 23 August —  and duck right back out.

Naturally, he stumbles into Simmons in the hall. She comes around the corner, and he lets out a small yelp of surprise.

“There you are!” she exclaims. “Where’ve have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Uh.” He opens his mouth and then closes it again. 

She raises a brow. “Kitchen, again?” she prompts. “The loo?”

“Uh. Yeah. Uh-huh. One of those. Look, could you—” he begins, flustered. “I was just trying to remember— what day is it?” _Smooth._

If she was looking at him strangely before, she is now looking at him as though he’s grown two heads. 

“It’s Thursday,” she says, slowly. He sucks in a breath. “26 June. Are you feeling all right?” she asks, concerned.

“No— I mean, yes. No reason,” he replies, hurriedly, and thinks that it might be safer for them all if he never interferes with whatever this time-travel business is _ever again._ He fidgets, itching to locate his mum.

“Listen, could you— could you give me just _one_ second?" he asks, craning his head for any sign of her, catching a glimpse into the kitchen. "I'll be right back."

He leaves her, quite bewildered, standing in the hall. 

"All right?" she says, shaking her head at his retreating back. 

He finds her in the kitchen, refilling the flower vase in the kitchen sink.

"Mum," he hisses, around the corner. She starts, and turns to him.

“Oh, there you are!” she says. “Jemma was just looking f—”

“I saw her,” he interrupts, hastily.

She eyes him more closely. “Something the matter?”

“I’m _fine,”_ he says. “Except, uh. There is something—” He lowers his voice, in case Simmons is still in the hall. “Don’t freak out. But, er— I don’t know exactly how to ask this, but is there something. On my birthday? That you’re planning to tell me?”

Her eyes widen, and she nearly drops the vase.

“Are you coming from _then_?” she asks, voice hushed.

He nods rapidly.

“I told you? What did I say? Did I do all right?” she instantly frets. Then, “Well, you’re here. I must have done all right.”

“I didn’t believe you,” he says, almost apologetically. “But you have to understand—”

She waves it away. “Oh, don’t bother with that. Nobody does, not at first.”

She leans back against the counter, wiping her dripping hands on the sink towel.

“Did I say anything else?” she asks.

He racks his brain. “Don’t think so. Except, er, you told me to— try and do something interesting?”

She looks slightly disappointed. "I told you to do something interesting, and you came here?"

“I didn’t want to try anything too risky!”

She nods, reaches up to squeeze his shoulder. 

“That’s all right, son. You will,” she says. “In time.” Then, “Oh, that worked out rather well. _In time—”_

He groans.

“Oh, all right, now,” she says, fondly, turning back to pick up the vase again. “I’m glad you took this little trip, but this is enough of a shock for one day. You’d best be getting back, now, hmm? Don’t want to keep Jemma and me waiting.”

He nods.

She ruffles his hair. “Best be getting back, now,” she repeats, shooing him out of the kitchen. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

“See you, Mum,” he says, with a small, completely disbelieving laugh, and heads for the nearest broom closet.

—

“Did Dad know?” he asks his mum, seated again on the study couch. Thoroughly shaken, but also some kind of nervously elated.

She shakes her head. “Never a reason to bring it up, really.”

 _“Odd,”_ he marvels. “Wait. Shouldn’t this do massive damage to history, and all that?” 

She shrugs, soft hair coming untucked from her bun and falling to her shoulders. “Doesn’t seem so, generally. Even if it did, how would we know?” she says. He blinks several times, thoroughly absorbing the nuanced statement. She’s smiling at him, faintly, and reaches out to tap his cheek. “This is all so strange, isn’t it?” 

He nods vigorously. “Not bad-strange, though,” he says, hesitantly. “Just. _Strange-strange_.” 

"It's best if you don't share this with anyone," she warns him. "Can cause all sorts of problems, jealousies. And, of course, most people wouldn't even believe you."

He nods again, more slowly. He’s having quite a difficult time wrapping his mind around the right words to express how incredibly _fascinating_ and _complicated_ this makes things.

"Yeah. Never," he says, quietly, and, for the inside of an entire hour, he’s sure he means it.

— 

True to her word, Simmons is waiting for him when he gets back. He’s a little dazed, feeling like he’s been gone for days. Maybe he has. At technically genius-level intellect, he’s by no means unintelligent, but it’s going to take quite a while to make sense of this shifted world he’s woken up into. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be gone so long,” he says, striving for _normal_ and end up somewhere in the range of _functional._

She looks at him a bit oddly. “You were barely out half an hour,” she says. Then, “What did your mum say? Was it about your birthday?” she asks, leaning in, lowering her voice confidentially. “She looked a bit harried.” Then, quickly backtracking, she shakes her head at herself. “Sorry. Of course, you don’t have to share, if it’s personal.” 

He breathes out slowly. 

“I—”  he begins. “Er. No, I mean, not very personal, just— A little bit? Sorry, it wasn’t really—”

She inclines her head, smiles at him lightly. 

"Don’t worry about it!” she says. Reaching behind her, “Here, I remembered this while you were out. I almost forgot."

He blinks, trying to snap himself out of whatever fog has settled on him in order to focus on the present. She hands him a small, wrapped present, and he comes to rest on the edge of the bed beside her, close enough that their shoulders and legs just barely brush.

“Happy Birthday, Fitz.” He can feel her eyes twinkling at him. 

“Should I open it now?” he asks. 

“Of course,” she says, leaning her chin gently on his shoulder. “Go for it. Sorry about the wrapping, though.” She gestures to the slightly crooked paper.

“Ah, that’s all right,” he says, nudging her arm. “You’re good at lots of other things.” 

He feels around the edges of the package, trying to guess at its shape before pulling off the paper, as he always does.

"Is it... Wait, is this another box?" he guesses. 

She gestures to it, smile telling him he's close. "Open it and find out."

Indeed, he has to open another small, wooden box to get to the true contents. 

The first thing his eyes light on is their own bright, shining faces laughing up at him from their place in a polished wood frame. Jemma's is closer, obviously the one holding the camera, and he's only a few inches behind, arm resting on her shoulder. In the background rises jungle and mountains, an enormously ancient pyramid.

His face lights up when he looks at her. 

"I remember this! This is the one we took—" 

"On the school trip to Perú," she finishes, with a grin. "Only hours before the worst sunburn of your life." 

"I remember that, too," he says, with a little grimace. He leans across her to place the picture at the front of his dresser. She tries very hard not to beam. 

Moving on to the next object—

"A lidded mug," she elaborates, as he picks it up, "to keep you from spilling as much tea on yourself — and _others_ — as possible." 

He laughs, a little rueful, thinking back to all the papers he's had to reprint, pressed shirts he's had to carefully wash out after various accidents with steaming liquid. 

"Excellent. Excellent choice, Simmons." Then, "Oh!" he exclaims. "A new watch! I've needed one since—" 

"—your last one fell into dry ice, yeah." 

"Yeah. This is brilliant, thank you," he says, immediately wrapping around his wrist. 

"You realize that this means you have no excuse to be late to class, now, right?" she teases.

"Oh, I _know_ I have no excuse," he says, seriously. "I just value sleep so much more highly than Professor Vaughn's lectures."

She snorts. "Fair enough."

"Thank you, though," he says. "This is great."

He looks down again, pulling the last item, a folded material, out from underneath the mug. "Wait, is this my cardigan?"

"I realized I'd never given it back," she says, sheepishly. "This is as appropriate an occasion to return it, right?"

He laughs. "Appreciate it." There’s a comfortable pause. Then,

“I know this is kind of a simple package," she says, rushed, lifting her hands to her neck the way she does when she’s flustered, "and that 21 is really a more significant birthday, but—”

“No, it’s perfect,” he says, honestly, and tries to pretend he’s not blushing. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She grins at him, knocking him softly with an elbow. He smiles back, but somewhere, in a small corner of his brain, he is troubled. Thinking, _I can’t keep secrets from her._

He realizes too late that she's still talking to him.

"Sorry." He shakes his head. "Say that again?"

"All I said was that I think we've avoided your party long enough," she says, patting his knee and starting to rise. "Shall we go back down?"

"Well, maybe just to see if there's any cake left," he says, half-serious. She rolls her eyes and pulls him to his feet.

"Come on, birthday boy, up you get," she says. "Let's go see some people."

Following her out, his eyes land on the darkness of the half-exposed closet in the far wall, and the smile slips just barely from his face. For now, though, he does his best to push the thoughts of time-travel and secrets and butterfly effects and other nonsense to the back of his mind, allowing himself to be led toward the growing noise.

On his eighteenth birthday, Leo Fitz learns to time-travel, and it takes him exactly six days, twelve hours, and twenty minutes to tell Jemma Simmons.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 is currently being written, and will be up very soon!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! As always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥
> 
> —
> 
> tumblr: filzsimmons
> 
> —


End file.
